


Fate

by Moratorium19



Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Amongst others - Freeform, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Creepy nameless elders, Dark Fantasy, Gay Sex, Grimdark, Horror, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Scheming, Sex, Strategy & Tactics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-04-29 00:29:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14461149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moratorium19/pseuds/Moratorium19
Summary: "What is it you fear? We, who are infinitely more powerful than you? Or perhaps it is the future, the path which you were destined to follow."– VoidThere were small differences, but in the grand scheme of things, his and Griffith's fates were intertwined like the strands of the rope his parents were hung from.A tale of dark fantasy, action, strategy, lust and all-consuming obsession.





	1. Chapter 1

Guts was not well-versed in the ways of the world as of yet, but if there was one thing he had discovered through painful trial and error, it is this single fact.

Might makes right.

The poor are oppressed by the ruling class which governs with an iron fist, laying down its laws upon the unfortunate masses. Domineering.

Even the unification of Midland, he heard from fellow mercenaries, was done through sheer strength by a conqueror.

Unshakable, unforgiving, oppressive strength. 

Of course, it didn’t mean he wanted to rule anybody. He couldn’t give two shits about politics.

However, this idea of strength had wormed its way inside his head, festering like a poorly tended wound, until it was the sole obsessing idea he had.  
Be strong, and you can eat. Be strong, and you can battle and win. Be strong, and you can live freely. 

That night when that thing happened with Donovan (Rotten son of a bitch) had only served to drive it further into his spirit, like a nail hammered so far into a wall it seamlessly blends with it.

And when he shouted out to the heavens, a potent outcry of unrestrained rage, hatred, and profound sorrow, it was at the unfairness of it all.  
And when he stopped, his throat hurting, his chest heaving, his lungs screaming with exertion, he came to the conclusion.

Life is unfair? Fucking deal with it.

So he dealt with it the best way he knew, by upping his training regimen.

Consciously or not, one other thought had sown its seeds deep in his mind, something tightly coupled with the previous.

Donovan, Gambino, mercenaries, kings, gods, demons, whatever.

The only ones he can trust are himself and his own power.

\--

“Throw off the ladders! Goddamn, throw off these fucking ladders or I’m throwing y’all ov’r that damn wall!”

“Pour the oil!”

“Notch arrows!”

Guts secured his helmet on his head, a savage grin on his face. His heart beat to the tempo of the drums of war. It was galvanizing. It was his universe. As unavoidably as the planets orbiting around the sun, he was pulled into the battlefield’s gravity.  
Here, he was a god of war, cutting a swath through throngs of enemy soldiers, leaving broken, gory forms behind. A macabre hurricane of destruction, shaped into bulging muscles and unrelenting hands wielding life-ending steel.

The heat of the battle reached a boiling point when they got into the heart of the city, half of the enemy forces staying behind a line formed by the enemy general and a platoon of soldiers. It seemed his little display of brutality had brought the general’s ire on him, because he stepped forward, his armor groaning as he did.

“You dare slaughter my men like pigs?”

Guts took a second to observe the giant of a man, holding a halberd twice his torso in width, and possessing muscles swollen enough to carry it with ease. Guts raised a brow.

“Yer wrong. I don’t consider your men to be pigs. After all, pigs have some value.”

A vein throbbed on the colossus’ temple, his neck coiling angrily and his muscles bulging like a charging bull’s. He brought a hand to his raised visor and brought it down, growling deeply all the while.  
His charge was powerful enough to make the ground shake with each resounding thud of his armored feet. Guts’ pupils dilated, a manic upturn of his lips making his grin carnivorous. 

Thump.

The general swung the war axe with enough momentum and force to cleave a grown man from head to groin.

Thump.

Guts’ knees buckled, and his arms strained as his sword took the brunt of the assault, the halberd making a considerable dent in the flat of his blade. Thankfully, his weapon was a Zweihander made of thick, wide steel, so breaking it was not an easy task to accomplish.

Thump.

Guts roared. His biceps groaned at the effort it took to lift the other’s weapon with his, the flat of his blade pushing against the edge of the others’.

“What?!” the startled voice of the general rose.

With one last push, the general stumbled backward, having not expected the unrelenting opposition he met.

“Sorry I didn’t ask what yer name was. I’m Guts, by the way.”

The men from both sides could only watch in muted disbelief as a man as tall as an elephant and with twice the girth of a Douglas Fir was split in half from shoulder to hip.

“So, any other contender?” Guts asked, breathing harshly, holding the handle of his sword with an unyielding grip. He held his helmet in his free hand, revealing his spiky black hair, somewhat slicked back with sweat. The fact that he held a two-handed sword in one hand as though it was a toy was noted by the enemy.

With morale as broken as their commander’s body, the others soon lost heart and surrendered in what was one of the most one-sided battles of the last two years in this Hundred Years War against the Tudor Empire.  
\--

“So, what do you think, Griffith?”

Up on the rampart, two young men observed the plaza with watchful eyes. One was fair-headed, his hair neatly combed and reaching his nape. The mild upturn of the lip and the sparkling green eyes betrayed his interest in the scene they had witnessed. His name was Judeau, one of the founding members of the Band of the Hawk.

The other who stood tall and proud as a cathedrals tower, his frame possessing ethereal grace and poise, assessed the situation with acumen. He said nothing, merely content with observing. Finally, as the young man on the cusp of adulthood left the premises, his sword hefted, the flat resting against his shoulder pad, his eyes moved from the scene and turned to Judeau.

It was a thing of subtlety, resting on the set of his jaw, the crease of his brow and the slight trembling of his hands which he hid behind his back. But, they were clues enough for Judeau to deduce that his leader was interested.

Tremendously so.

Later that night, when Griffith laid in a bed that was not his, an unwelcome weight bearing on him and the legs spread wide like a bitch in heat, his thoughts kept drifting back to a head of spiky dark hair, dark eyes and a body sculpted by the gods themselves. A weapon fashioned for war, inhuman but so beautiful with its deadly grace and terrifying strength.

A tool which should - by all accounts - be his to wield.

Griffith’s only.

As he felt a hard, hot member press against his entrance, he put a slender hand against the naked chest of the elder.

“Are you not feeling well tonight?”

Griffith’s gut clenched with revulsion.

“I understand. Then, touch yourself.”

He obeyed, thinking back to the rolling, supple muscles. His thoughts brought him to this body which would lead him to uncharted heights, and pave the way to his dream. As he came undone, he felt hot semen hit his face in disgusting waves.

And even as he washed his face using the river’s water, his face red and raw from scrubbing so much and his stomach empty and aching from regurgitating repeatedly, he couldn’t wait to get his hands on him.

Guts was such a lovely name.

\---

In other unrelated news, the next day, the King of Midland died.


	2. And all the pieces come into place

It had struck with the suddenness of a thunderstorm. One day, many military plans were being made and twice that number of ploys to further hidden agendas were elaborated. The next, every plot was laid in shambles when that single piece of news reached the informed ears.

 

The King of Midland had died at night, his body found cold and stained with fecal matter by a castle servant the following morn. Of course, the poor maid had been summarily disposed of, to avoid this news from leaving the confines of the castle.

 

To the masses, he was merely currently busy and had left to the standing reagent the task of handling the crown’s affairs until he was back from the royal library where he was studying ancient texts.

 

The burial was a secret affair, the coffin hidden until a proper burial could take place once the rightful successor and heir to the throne, Julius, could be anointed.

 

Unfortunately, Julius was currently four riding weeks away from the capital city, Wyndham, coincidentally enough, in a bid to demand more finances for the war effort from Federico de Vandimion, the wealthiest man in the realm.

 

The clock started ticking.

 

* * *

 

 

( _Two weeks later_ )

 

The sky was bedecked with stars that shone as gems upon an obsidian crown. Far below, the city was speckled with motes of light emitted by blazing hearths. The cold hung over rattling frames like the embrace of a demented lover, while dirt-stained snow blanketed the streets and fresh powder, the roof tiles.

 

Darting shadows, wreathed in darkness in which they seamlessly blended, crossed the town at an alarming pace. The only trace of their passage left were tracks on the snow-laden ground which would be filled with wastewater come morn. Road after gnarled road, they swerved and streamed, avoiding the guards patrolling the town. The fewer witnesses, the better.

 

Finally reaching their destination, they trickled inside a building whose door had been left unlocked for this very purpose.

 

Removing their hoods one by one, the light from a flickering oil lamp illuminated their features, revealing young men’s faces, barely adult for some, unquestionably childlike for the rest.

 

A man stood at the entrance to a staircase leading to the second floor of the building, where the strategic room was located. Severe-looking, with a thick beard, trimmed mustache and wavy hair. Pointed, narrowed eyes observed the newcomers with all the caution and weariness of a man who had gained it all, and had made legions of enemies to seize it. This man was Federico de Vandimion.

 

“When I heard the Band of the Hawk members were youthful, I underestimated to what extent,” the ashen-cold voice revealed nothing.

 

“Youth does not equate to incompetence,” the last one to remove his hood spoke. The action revealed gleaming, thick silver hair and keen blue eyes that shone like aquamarine. “The fact that your lordship heard of our deeds should be proof enough of our skills. Skills that we wish to offer your lordship the reins to. For the good of the realm, of course,“ Griffith’s honeyed voice cajoled.

 

The barest hint of a smile, a mild upturn of the lips, appeared on the powerful noble’s face, before neutrality set in again. A fleeting approval, but to Griffith, it was worth all the gold in the world.

 

“Indeed, for the good of the realm. Come, we have wasted time enough as it is.”

 

The group of ten soon reached the room designated as the strategic room. In the center, a huge table where a map was laid, with many waxen figures artfully carved, each one representing a faction or a prominent figure.

 

“Julius, that foolish boy, is currently on the way, two weeks from Wyndham. The coronation will begin soon after he reaches the castle’s folds. That absolutely cannot happen.” Federico said.

 

“A head-on attack would be suicidal. Even if we miraculously managed to vanquish the White Dragon Knights escorting him, our losses would be crippling. That is a risk I refuse to take.” Griffith rebutted, shaking his head.

 

Griffith’s eyes rove over the map, until his eyes stopped, fixating a point where a blue waxen figure stood. He pointed at it, drawing the gazes of everyone.

 

“A sizeable Tudor troop is camping in Outreach, three horse-riding days from here. They are planning on laying siege to Castle Red. It is doomed to fail, but we could use this opportunity.”

 

The cogs turned inside Federico’s formidable mind.

 

“You’re planning on using the Tudor troop to lead an upfront assault against Julius?”

 

A smile split Griffith’s face, and the elder was struck by how childlike he looked.

 

“Exactly. We leak the route Julius will take to the Tudor troops. They won’t miss the opportunity of having him taken prisoner. When they face each other, there are two scenarios. The first, they decide on battling, each army sustaining heavy losses in the ordeal. This is a less than ideal outcome for Julius, given how attached to his precious knights he is. If they do though, we come and sweep the scene.”

 

Federico hummed. “And the other?”

 

“He flees with a rear-guard and hopes to reach Castle Red by nightfall. By doing so, he will be forced to pass through the Black Forest, both because this is the shortest path, and to hide his tracks.”

 

“A perfect location for an ambush,” Federico said, having reached a satisfying conclusion.

 

“Indeed. The only problem remaining is that Julius is bound to take a decent amount of knights with him. Loathe as I am to admit it, this might pose some problem-” as he was about to elaborate, Griffith, as well as all the other gathered, heard the sound of the door opening and slamming closed.

 

The Hawks tensed, ready for a fight. Federico raised a hand, staying them. The steps came closer, and finally, a man came up, imposing frame, spiky locks, and dark eyes, completed with a bored look.

 

“I heard you need some firepower. The name’s Guts,” Guts said, shrugging.

 

“Ah, just the man I waited for,” Federico said, elated.

 

He proceeded to explain the plan to the newcomer, but Griffith only listened with half an ear. His heart thumped in his chest in excitement, his neurons firing just the right signals and a euphoric sensation spreading through his veins like the sweetest of venoms. He tightened his fists.

 

“Know that this is a betrayal of the highest order,” Federico said, ending his tirade.

 

“This is why you chose unaffiliated mercenaries, right? Like that, even if we fail or betray you, it’s our word against yours,” Judeau piped in, his voice cheerful.

 

Pippin grunted. He, like always, was ready.

 

“Yes, among other reasons. Beware, time is of the essence,” Federico warned for the last time.

 

Once there came a lull in the conversation, Guts spoke.

 

“Why are ya staring at me?” Guts asked, an eyebrow raised as he gazed at Griffith.

 

Griffith swallowed, formulating and discarding thoughts lightning fast. He finally cocked his head and grinned genuinely.

 

“I had been waiting for you,” He only said, his gaze boring into the abyssal depths of the other mercenary. Guts grunted.

 

“Yer creepy, that’s what,” he rebutted, though his tone was not aggressive.

 

Federico cleared his throat, “That may be so, but above all, brilliant. He is the one who came up with the plan.”

 

Guts hummed, his eyes never straying from Griffith’s features. As if he could somehow read the lines of his face and deduce his worth. Guts snorted.

 

“Maybe there’s more to you than a creepy stare and a pretty face.”

 

The Hawks bristled, ready to teach this daring fucker his place. They were stopped by Griffith’s hand.

 

Griffith’s eyes sparkled. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

 

“Take it however the fuck you want. One thing I will make clear, though. I’m not a party freak. So you can take your merry band and fuck off. We’ll meet at the location.”

 

Federico frowned, though he refrained from saying anything. Griffith’s merely smiled.

 

“If you won’t come with us, will you at least allow me to accompany you?”

 

“Griffith!” various voices rose – the most prominent being Caska’s - but Griffith paid them no mind.

 

“Hell no. Why the fuck would you want to come with me? You a fag?” Guts raised a dubious brow.

 

Griffith disregarded that comment entirely. “How about a duel then? If you win, you go alone. If I do, I come with you. Would it placate you?”

 

“Think yer pretty boy ass is gonna beat me into submission? You’re on.” Guts answered with a vicious grin.

 

Griffith’s smile turned into a smirk. This is how he acquires his queen.


	3. Mine

The sky was swollen with stars that swarmed like insects in its vast depths. Guts had been silent the whole duration of the ride. He was not one to contemplate, normally, much more a man of abrasive words and actions than one of silent introspection. Finally, he said the first sentence in the three hours he had been with his new companion.

 

« I don’t trust that old man. »

 

Griffith sent him a sidelong glance. He then stared ahead, as if he could see something Guts couldn’t.

 

“You’d be a fool to. Men like that are slippery as water snakes. Behind the beautiful scales hides a deadly predator.”

 

Guts directed him a curious glance.

 

“I didn’t take ya for an animal lover.”

 

Griffith chuckled, his frame shaking slightly on his horse. “You did not take me for much, at first.”

 

Guts huffed and tightened his grip on the reins. “And I still can’t believe you beat me. It would’ve been a riot for Gam-”

 

Then Guts fell eerily silent with an uncharacteristic sullenness. Griffith observed him for a few seconds, before saying tentatively. “Is he…”

 

“No one that matters. Not anymore.”

 

Griffith hummed. They said nothing more.

 

They dismounted at the edge of a forest, and led their horses to the river they could hear streaming not far from there. Once the animals had drunk their fill, and were sufficiently fed, they tied them up to sturdy oaks nearby the pond downstream.

 

Then, Griffith started undressing. First went his sword, then his armor and layers of clothes.

 

“The heck ya doing?” Guts asked in disbelief.

 

Griffith glanced at him over his shoulder. His eyes were playful. “Taking a midnight bath, obviously.”

 

Guts growled, and he advanced menacingly. “I know what you’re doing, you dumbass. I meant why you are doing it right now, and in front of me.” If the raven looked disturbed by the Hawk’s nudity, he did a good job at hiding it.

 

Griffith shrugged. “And what if someone comes while I am unarmed and in such an unfavorable position? I need someone to protect me. Oh, but here is a big bad swordsman with a big bad sword. So, problem solved?”

 

Then, in an exceedingly childish display, he sprang and did a bomb, absolutely drenching Guts’ clothes.

 

A vein throbbed in his temple, and he had to count slowly to ten to prevent himself from doing something stupid, like staining the water crimson with Griffith’s blood. _Smile and relax_ , he told himself.

 

Griffith guffawed. “You look like a grumpy wet cat.”

 

Guts’ smile cracked around the edges. Oh, you fucker…

 

Without ceremony, he dropped his Zweihander and shed the layers of armor and fabric covering him, and mimicked Griffith’s action of earlier, except for the fact that his own impact vastly exceeded Griffith’s. It resulted in the silver-haired man spluttering, a sheet of silver curls in disarray sticking to his face.

 

Guts erupted with laughter when he saw him. “Look who’s talking! Ya look like a damp mutt.”

 

Griffith cocked his head and clenched his jaw. Then, he sent a small wave of water with his arm and smirked when he saw the absolutely irate look on Guts face.

 

 “You bastard, come over here!” he shouted, swimming in his direction like a man possessed.

 

Griffith laughed as he swam too, trying to avoid Guts and distracting him by flapping his legs and feet, sending water in his eyes.

 

Guts roared and grabbed blindly, managing to grab Griffith’s ankle. He crowed his victory as he pulled as hard as he could, dragging him under. He delighted in the following ‘Oomph!’ and the man choking on water as a little got into his lungs.

 

Finally managing to emerge his head from the water, Griffith made to grab at Guts and ended up with his arms secured around Guts’ back, his body pulled taut against him.

 

Guts stiffened immediately, the words ‘Don’t touch me’ nearly spat at the silver-haired boy wonder. He took a deep breath and told himself that this was another situation, completely innocent and there was nothing sexual about it.

His body, however, seemed to think otherwise as a certain part of his anatomy began to wake. He immediately pushed Griffith away, not even caring that he lost balance.

 

He submerged his head, as if the cold water would clear his head and body of all these nasty thoughts.

 

When he rose, he saw Griffith observing him, coughing slightly still, his arms and legs swaying to keep him afloat.

 

“It was a normal reaction,” Guts defended.

 

Griffith giggled. “Of course,” he said once his mirth had abated, ignoring Guts’ growl.

 

Then, Guts noticed the pendant hanging around his neck.

 

“Whuzzat?” He asked pointing with a nod of his head at the red, round object with disgusting facial features carved on it.

 

Griffith swam closer, holding the object out for Guts to inspect.

 

“This? I got it from an old gypsy fortune teller. She foretold that with it, I would rule the world. Apparently, it was my fate as soon as I acquired it.”

 

Guts scoffed, gently releasing the pendant. “I don’t believe in fate. That’s horseshit if there ever was one.”

 

Griffith raised a slender eyebrow. “This is my dream, though. Do you have a dream?”

 

Guts had the feeling that the question was much deeper than it first seemed. He raised a fist above the water, clenched and containing inhuman strength and conviction.

 

“It’s not a dream. It’s how it’s going to be. I will be the strongest in the world. That’s it. There is no ‘or else.’”

 

Griffith’s eyes slanted as he gave his brightest smile. He raised a slender hand which curled around Guts’ wrist, and brought the fist to his lips, gently kissing Guts’ scarred knuckles.

 

“The fuck ya doing?!” Guts retracted his hands, as if he’d been burned.

 

Griffith’s azure eyes shone like gemstones as his gaze bore into Guts’ dark ones. “I will need this strength to achieve my dream. Will you help me?”

 

Guts kept his limb as far from the other’s mouth as he could. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Just don’t do this kinda shit again.”

 

Griffith laughed as he swam to firm land and walked toward the rucksacks they had brought with them. He dried himself with a piece of fabric. Guts followed his example, and once sufficiently dry and clothed, went to pick up their tools to light a camp fire. Griffith took some slices of salted venison, and soon enough, they found themselves basking in the warmth of a fire, their features lit by the flame, whilst shadow writhed behind them.

 

“Whatcha scheming? Y’know, with that king business.” Guts asked whilst chewing a piece of meat.

 

Drinking from a canteen of water, Griffith seemed to ponder for a moment, before answering once he was done relieving his thirst. “Your table manners are horrible.”

 

Guts flipped him the bird. “Fuck you. I didn’t get to have much of an education. Brought up in a mercenary camp as far as I remember.”

 

Griffith’s eyes widened, before softening.

 

Guts growled. “I don’t need or want your pity.”

 

But Griffith only shook his head. “That’s not pity. That’s awe. I have always admired people who crawled from rock bottom and seized their lives with their own strength.”

 

“And what about you?” Guts asked suddenly, straightening up.

 

And Griffith felt compelled to tell him where he came from, his own hell he crawled out from. Guts listened attentively, not once interrupting. When he was done with his tale, Griffith’s pale hands clutched the blades of grass on either side, his gaze lowered. He had even unearthed the deals he had made with rich nobles, his body traded for a paltry sum.

 

Finally, Guts roared. “You’re fucking with me?”

 

Griffith recoiled, as if physically struck. His dual aquamarines shook then his eyelids closed, in order to avoid Guts’ gaze. He knew what he would see there. Disgust. Contempt. Repulsion.

 

“I’m disgusting, right?” His nails dug crescents on his arms as he hugged himself.

 

He did not expect the hand gently raising his chin. Pure, earnest eyes gazed at him fondly.

 

“You’re incredible.”

 

A shocked gasp escaped his parted lips, his eyes wide. He tried to speak, but the words turned to ashes in his throat.

 

“You don’t even realize everything ya did. All these sacrifices, everything so you could offer a better life to yer friends. And you were what when you began? Eighteen?”

 

“Sixteen,” he said, his voice cracking.

 

“Shit, so young. Look, that’s why I was angry. Ya looked at me like I was amazing. But between us, you’re the one packing the punch. So keep your head raised.”

 

He ended his lecture by lightly punching Griffith’s shoulder.

 

As Guts went to stoke the fire, Griffith stood silently, the only sound in the clearing being the flame’s crackling and the branch pushing the embers around.

 

Griffith whispered some words, lost to the wind and the spluttering of the fire.

 

“Huh, you saying something?” Guts asked, directing him an inquisitive glance.

 

Griffith shook his head with a fond smile.

 

_That’s dangerous_

_I grow unhealthily attached to you._

\----

 

After two more days, the pair reunited with the Hawks at a crossroads nearby Outreach.

 

“Leader!” Rickert shouted, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

 

Once they had dismounted, they went to the camp they had set in a nearby clearing and tied up their horses.

 

Griffith smiled genuinely, laughter bubbling as the youngest in the band recounted all the events which led to them being here.

 

“Yes, yes,” Griffith said patiently, patting his head affectionately.

 

Casca glowered at Guts, who only scratched the back of his neck in answer. What’s done is done, right? Besides, it was Griffith who had insisted on coming with him. He hadn’t even wanted to deal with them as a whole.

 

Once everyone had finished telling stories and a comfortable, companionable silence hung in the camp, Griffith stood and raised his voice.

 

“Everyone! I have an announcement to make. It is much closer to a prediction, actually. Listen to me carefully…”

 

And they listened with rapt attention as he laid out how the next week was going to unfold. Disbelief was expressed on many faces, but no one dared to raise their voice to contradict the leader.

 

At the end, Guts couldn’t help but ask. “How likely is it?”

 

Griffith tapped his forefinger against his chin. “About ninety percent, I would wager.”

 

“What about the other ten percents?” Judeau asked, morbid curiosity burning in his eyes.

 

There was a pregnant pause as Griffith gazed heavenward. “Let us hope we fall in these ninety percent.”

 

The rest was left unsaid, but everyone read between the lines. After all, if the ten percent case were to happen, it would mean a single thing.

 

The Band of the Hawk would become a name of the past, a mere line in a long-forgotten, dusty record.

 

Looking back at the somber faces, Griffith went to give instructions.

 

“Guts, I will need you to leak Julius’ route we obtained from Federico to the Tudor troop.”

 

“Since when did I become your subordinate?” Guts asked incredulously.

 

“Since you lost to me in a fair, straightforward duel. Or do you want to have a rematch?”

 

“Tch,” Guts spat but obeyed nonetheless. He wasn’t even cross anymore, it was just a force of habit.

 

Anyways, he couldn’t help the thrill this invoked in him, and the future battlefield sang a song of death and glory, amidst spilled entrails, crushed limbs, and forever upstaring eyes.

 

“Casca,” he called the second in command, who stood at attention, “you will enact part two of the plan. Could you procure us enough _product_?”

 

Casca saluted resolutely, a firm ‘Yes sir’ answering her leader’s query.

 

And so, with every piece correctly set on the board, the only thing left was to wait for the events to unfold.

 

\---

 

Julius rode his charger with hot, pulsing rage in his chest. How dare that old man? Making him come all the way to his domain and not even daring to show his face? If it were up to him, he would have his head mounted on a spike planted in front of Wyndham’s castle.

 

He ground his teeth. Fuck, his brother was going to be furious.

 

Thankfully, they had finally arrived near Outreach, so they were only three days away from their destination.

 

He frowned when he saw many dark specks in the distance, amidst a huge cloud of raised dirt. The specks became spots then large circles at an alarming pace.

 

He pulled on the reins of his charger, the horse neighing as it was forced to come to an abrupt standstill.

 

“Enemy! It’s the Tudor flags!” One of his men called.

 

“Take the CA1 battle formation!”

 

“No!” Julius shouted. “They are too numerous! Castle Red is only a few leagues from here, we will get reinforcement there! Squadrons alpha through delta, with me!”

 

And without further preamble, he left half of his Knights to cover his retreat.

 

The men who were left behind watched in disbelief as their leader abandoned them to their death, where they would face the full might of the Tudor troop alone.

 

“Men, with heart! We shall protect his Majesty the King’s brother, and Midland’s honor! With me!”

 

The standing general shouted at the top of his lungs, charging toward the enemy. The rest of the knights roared and followed him to their death a scant instant later. Of course, if a few deserted during the ensuing confusion, that was to be expected.

 

Julius swore again in his head, the only reason he did not do it aloud was to avoid biting his tongue. He flattened his chest against his horse as he rode toward the Black Forest where he would be able to avoid pursuit.

 

He may have lost half of his men, but his troop was still alive, and more importantly, _he_ was still alive. He could always build another army anew. No, he would bring a grander, much more magnificent troop. He just had the reach the safety of the castle’s walls.

 

As they rode further into the forest, they came upon a strange sight, with many a tree left with deep dents in the trunk, the axes still embedded inside. It looked like this area was under the annual wood gathering. Though it was strange they saw no lumberjack around.

 

Disregarding that thought, they filed into a wide clearing, with hundreds of trees cleared from the spot. As they rode further, about three quarters of the way in, they heard a quiet hissing, as if a choir of dozens of snakes had assembled.

 

That’s when things went sideways.

 

Huge explosions went all around, the trees falling and barring their path.

 

“Ambush!”

 

“Damnation!”

 

A rain of flaming arrows hit them. The horses neighed and tried to avoid the flames spreading as the wind picked up, and became uncontrollable.

 

Julius looked around in panicked bewilderment. There! He saw one gap, thin enough that only one horse could comfortably speed through.

 

“You!” He called to the closest knight. “You go through that gap! If you see any suspicious movement, give a shout!”

 

The knight sped off in the indicated direction and Julius watched anxiously as he got farther and farther away, passing the spot and managing to reach a safe location on the other side.

 

Without waiting, he dove forward, his reins clutched tightly in his hand as he pushed his horse to the limits. Distantly, he heard the shouts of his men as they were used as human pincushions, their bodies set aflame or riddled with arrows.

 

He finally passed the spot and heaved a sigh.

 

“Fucking finally!” was the last thing he heard before his world became dark.

 

Julius died without even knowing what hit him.

 

\----

 

Guts couldn’t help but admire Griffith. Everything was going exactly as he said it would, in the minute details of his prediction. This wasn’t even a prediction; this was seeing the future. He pressed his body against the trunk of the tree, a brown cloak covering his body. He would not fool a closer inspection, but in this confusion it was enough. Plus, the thick branch he was on was angled just the right way to keep the people in the clearing from seeing him.

 

When he saw the first soldier come in, he let them go without doing anything. If Griffith was right, the enemy general would soon follow him.

 

And indeed, a few seconds later he heard another horse neigh. He timed his jump just right and managed to crush the general’s head using the momentum of his jump, while landing on the horse.

 

“Fucking finally!” he said, as the horse toppled and he barely managed to avoid getting crushed to death.

 

“Men! To the breach!” He heard a knight - maybe an adjutant - yell.

 

“Guts! That’s your cue!” Griffith yelled, firing arrow after arrow. They had obviously gotten rid of the scout who had passed this choke point.

 

“I’d been waiting for it!” Guts yelled back

 

When the first enemy sped through, horse and rider were carved by Guts’ Zweihander.

 

And one by one, the enemy fell by his sword, the blood forming rivulets, then puddles. Soon, Guts boots became soaked with the crimson liquid as more and more men fell. Mounted or by foot, alone or in pairs or even trios, he equalized everyone in death.

 

“We yield! We yield!” Some men shouted, trying to avoid the inferno and becoming pincushions. They were met with even more flaming arrows.

 

None here should survive.

 

None here would survive.

 

And in the end, with corpses upon corpses laid on the unforgiving ground, they could say with the utmost certainty.

 

None of the White Dragon Knights had survived.

 

Weary but elated with their recent crushing victory, the Hawks regrouped and left the bloodstained clearing with high spirits.

 

Once they had left the Black Forest behind, and had passed the Harpers Village, they found themselves in an open grassland, with as sole remarkable elements a mountain not far from there and an abandoned mine.

 

More importantly, a troop of knights, astride their horses and ready, welcomed them.

 

“Kingslayers! By decree of His Majesty the King, and with the blessing of Lord de Vandimion, we shall punish the evildoers! And the sole applicable punishment is death,” the knight leader – Maximilian - shouted, drawing steel and tightening his hold on the reins of his charger. The action was mirrored by all the men around him.

 

The Hawks exchanged panicked looks, readying themselves for battle still.

 

“I have miscalculated. I thought we would have more time to make our escape,” Griffith said tightening his fists.

 

“We are your allies! We were sent by Lord de Vandimi-“ Judeau tried to defend the Hawks before being interrupted.

 

“Silence, heathen! You dare sully His name with your dirty words? Men! Leave not one of these scoundrels alive, except for their leader! He shall pay for his sins with pounds of flesh and blood.”

 

Hundreds of chargers rushed in their direction.

 

“Griffith! What do we do?” Guts asked, shaking his shoulder roughly.

 

“I don’t know!” Griffith barked uncharacteristically, batting his hand away. His eyes rove over the plains surrounding them. The forest was too far behind, and the knights charging toward them would butcher them in the open field. Something caught his attention as his eyes settled on the mine dug inside the small mountain.

 

“To the mine! They won’t be able to follow us with their mounts inside! There, we will gain some leverage!”

 

They fled toward the safety of the rocky halls, hoping they would be able to make a stand inside.

 

Fortunately for them, the last of the Hawks managed to get inside a few instants before the first horse barreled inside. The knight pulled on the reins tightly to stop his mount from following them.

 

“Sir, what do we do?” The knight asked his leader once he came closer.

 

“Dismount! We shall crush them inside. Beware of an ambush.”

 

Following his instruction, hundreds of knights followed inside the mine, with a group of men standing guard at the entrance. They explored carefully, expecting an ambush at every corner.

 

As they headed further inside, they saw neither hide nor hair of the Hawks. Maximilian, the leader, observed the surroundings carefully. Gently, he laid a hand on a support beam keeping the stony roof from collapsing. The wood was rotten, and most importantly, carved, almost as if-

 

“It’s a tr-!”

 

He was cut off by the sound of huge explosions which shook the mine, his body jerking and nearly falling.

 

A little disoriented, he jolted into full awareness when a stone fell right by the subordinate on his left, crushing the man’s skull instantly, his eyes bulging with the pressure.

 

“Make way!” He shouted, panic filling his core as, pillar after pillar, the supporting beams folded on themselves –no longer able to support the weight - making the ceiling collapse.

In disarray, every knight tried to push his way toward the entrance/exit neverminding the few who had fallen and were being crushed by their brothers-in-arms armored feet.

 

Maximilian was nearly there! A few more feet and he would be free from the death trap. Only a few feet…

 

He crawled, having fallen at some point, and could feel the fresh wind whip his face when his body refused to move an inch further. No matter how much he tried, his legs wouldn’t budge.

 

Looking back, he saw a stone crushing his lower half. In a daze, he looked back ahead and raised a trembling hand toward his men outside. Nobody helped him.

 

The last thing he saw before his eyes closed forever was the enemy charging at them astride their horses.

 

He drew his last breath.

 

\-----

 

Once the battle (slaughter) was over, the Band of the Hawk and Guts found themselves surrounded once more with corpses. Griffith breathed loudly as the men cheered, crowing their victories.

 

"Yer really something, yanno? How did ya manage to guess everything that would happen? Even the old bastard's betrayal."

 

Of course, everything had proceeded as Griffith had foreseen, in all the exhaustive details. The scheme had been simple enough.

 

They had tied up their horses on the other side of the mountain, hidden from plain sight. Of course, initially, the mine had only one entrance. They had dug another one which connected with one of the corridors. When the enemy entered, they quickly exited the pit using this hidden exit. Then, they had lit some charges and collapsed the mine. After all that, it was only a matter of riding their horses to the original entrance of the mine and finishing the enemies there. Everything else had been acting on their parts.

 

Griffith did not answer Guts' query, his back turned to the man. When he turned around, however, his pupils were blown as liquid euphoria coursed through his veins. Griffith felt invincible. As if he could have the whole world dancing in the palm of his hand. And when he had seen Guts carving the knights like one would a wedding pie...

 

Without thinking his arms wound around Guts' thick neck, his finger grabbing the dark spikes, pulling harshly enough to draw a groan from the man.

 

Guts didn't have a chance to question him when Griffith's nimble tongue invaded his mouth, mapping his teeth, gums, and tongue. Guts' lips were dry and chapped while Griffith's were soft and moist, and the contact made sparks of ecstasy travel down his spine, till they reached his toes which curled with pleasure. Nothing mattered, but this heat consuming him, leaving him raw and terribly hungry. Set ablaze with a devouring passion.

 

Finally, Guts reacted. He jerked away, but Griffith did not let him go. He would not, if that was the last thing he did.

 

He tightened his hold and, when they finally separated, a thin trail of saliva connecting their lips, Griffith's forehead fell against Guts' chest piece. His usually pale cheeks were flushed and his breathing was labored. He held onto Guts as if he were the last thing anchoring him, the last lifeline tethering him to the ground, preventing Griffith from drowning in a sea of uncertainty and self-loathing.

 

Guts watched him uncomprehendingly, still in a state of shock, as though he were a stranger in his own body observing from afar. Griffith's next words brought him back to earth.

 

"You're mine. Now and forever."


	4. Causality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which causality unravels, and reality bends at the edges. Forces beyond common understanding are causing the rifts which beset every piece on the board, and it is only a matter of time before the unavoidable checkmate.

Dark clouds hung overhead.

The first hit which clocked him on the jaw was not expected. The second, however, was and Griffith had to consciously squash his defensive reflexes, letting himself be punched. His stomach throbbed with agony mirroring the one in his jaw. He dry heaved, reluctantly happy that he had foregone eating breakfast this morning to spend more time planning.

"Griffith!" Judeau shouted, a myriad of voices raising afterwards from the shocked Hawks.

"I-It's alright," he croaked out in-between coughs.

"What's the big idea?" Caska cried out, absolutely irate. At what, one might wonder.

Guts spared her about half a second before zoning in on the downed leader of the Hawks. "What's the big idea? Tha' should be my fuckin' question! The hell's wrong with you?"

Griffith looked like a properly berated child. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

Above, the skies rumbled as a few drops of rain fell on everyone gathered.

Guts swept his spikes back with one shaking hand.

"Fuck! Fuck, shit. I nearly split you in half, for fuck's sake. Thought you were..."

Then a shadow seemed to fall over his eyes, a haunted look on his features.

Griffith's bottom lip trembled. "I know..." he whispered.

"Do you?" Guts rebutted harshly.

The silver-haired man kept silent, his shoulders dropped in shame. The rain fell harder, becoming a veritable downpour in a few instants.

Guts sighed, complicated feelings and much too complicated thoughts swirling in a nauseating mess.

"Look, it's better if we part ways. For all o' us."

And without further ado, he bailed out of there, his trusty Zweihander adequately secured and his helmet caught between his arm and his body. The Hawks parted as he went, letting him leave their fold.

They had achieved an overwhelming victory, but to Griffith, it seemed as if he had suffered the most crushing defeat to date.

His chest heaving, Griffith leaned back on his arms, gazing heavenwards. Water ran down his cheeks, silver hair stuck to his forehead, and he had to will his burning eyes to spare him from any unsightly tears.

He sighed despondently as thunder rumbled. Perhaps it was time to head back to the capital.

The journey to Wyndham was uneventful at best.

Nobody had the slightest idea of what was happening with Guts right now.

 

* * *

 

( **With Guts** )

Guts cussed like a sailor as another wave of rain drenched him. He sneezed, rubbing his bare arms to provide some modicum of heat.

He should have at least taken a horse or some provisions.

Fuck, he was so dumb.

And what the hell was wrong with Griffith?

One moment he was normal and the next he pulls that kind of bullshit.

_You're mine. Now and forever._

The nerve of that asshole. Guts belonged to no one!

He was strong, and he had no master, nor did he bow down to the whims of gods.

Then was the fact that he had let him beat him up on purpose. Oh, Guts was no fool. He had genuinely not predicted the first hit, but for the second one, his body had tensed, and his arms had twitched as if to grab his fist or deflect it.

But he had let himself be hit. He had allowed Guts to vent his frustration and shock.

Guts' lips pulled downward, and he rubbed the back of his neck absently. He did not like this one bit. The way his chest clenched brought forth an agony which was not physical in nature. He could deal with a wound. He couldn't deal with feelings.

The sound of hooves clapping and a horse neighing brought him out of his thoughts.

Beside him, a proud skeleton-themed stallion gazed at him with a creepy glowing eye. Astride the impressive beast, a straight-backed armored knight, also skeleton-themed, with a bone-white shield at the ready, stared at him imperiously.

Guts tensed, ready to fight at a moment's notice.

"Who the fuck are ya?" he growled out menacingly.

This guy was no joke, Guts could feel it, and it set his nerves on edge.

"I came at the behest of the provider. I am to help bring out your hidden potential. Come, the way is long and the time is scarce." His answer was curt and to the point.

Seeing how reluctant he was to follow creepy nameless strangers, the horse neighed and bit his chest piece. He grunted at the tremendous pressure on his rib cage and let out a surprised sound when he was hefted, and thrown overhead, landing in a heap behind the Skull Knight - as he would henceforth call him.

The man said nothing, just pulling Guts upright behind him so that they were both astraddle.

Guts wanted nothing to do with them, but he had to admit that the guy seemed hella powerful, and it was only a gut feeling, but he could not imagine any scenario in which he beat him. And gut feelings are what prevented him from kicking the bucket all these years.

"You might want to secure your grip."

Ah? What for?

His thought was answered when the horse took off at a gallop. Then its hooves left the ground. He nearly fell, and it was only by reaching an arm around the knight's chest that he managed to stay mounted.

As he saw the ground getting farther and farther, he couldn't help but think.

In what kind of fucked up situation had he landed?

 

* * *

 

( **Back with Griffith** )

It was without fanfare nor celebratory buffet that the Hawks entered the capital city, under the vigilant eyes of the city watch. The night sky was devoid of clouds, and many stars shone, a moon crescent grinning at them.

"Leader, the guys are thinking of going to have a drink. Wanna come with us?" Judeau asked Griffith.

But the silver-haired man shook his head, smiling benevolently. "Sorry Judeau, I have a meeting to attend. Please, spare no expenses, you deserved it."

Judeau nodded, signaling to Pippin that they should go. The colossus grunted and follow the smaller man to a nearby inn.

After walking for two dozen minutes, Griffith entered a nondescript building in a side alley. Two guards stood at the entrance, letting him inside upon seeing him.

The inside of the building was cozily decorated, with tasteful furniture which must have cost more than what the whole band of the Hawks could afford, were they to gather their gold coins.

Seated in a plush armchair with a bottle of foreign wine on a side table and a full glass of wine in one hand, the man watched a painting depicting the conquest of Midland by Gaiseric with a narrowed glance. He did not flinch when Griffith's step brought him in front of him, hiding his view of the painting.

"Your lordship," Griffith greeted, bowing low.

The man's eyes darted upwards, taking in his features.

"Griffith. Why don't you take a seat?" Federico asked, gesturing to a chair opposite him, just below the painting.

"Please forgive this discourtesy, but I would rather remain standing," Griffith denied.

"Suit yourself."

A beat of silence, then Federico spoke again.

"I would enjoy picking your brain. Why do you think events unfolded like this?"

Griffith folded his arms across his chest. After a few moments spent thinking, he began his monologue.

"You wanted to slay Julius. Your feelings of distaste seemed genuine. By doing so, you also got rid of his knights. Even if either of us was to reveal the truth - were the prince and future king to believe us -, it would benefit neither. The one giving the order is as responsible as the executioner. A kind of mutually assured destruction."

Griffith touched his chin with his finger as his thoughts swirled, "Also, you sent your men after us. One could think at first glance that it was to silence us. I don't believe so."

Federico swirled the red wine inside his glass, observing him with narrowed eyes. "Oh? Pray tell why you would reckon so."

Thoughtful, Griffith answered.

"You would not risk the lives of hundreds of knights to solely ensure our silence, especially since we have a MAD as stated before. Did you want to get rid of the commander? Perhaps a rival, or someone who would thwart you? But no, he seemed much too devoted to you. You wanted to get rid of his knights. You..."

He took a moment to slowly say the next words in a treacherous whisper, "are purposefully weakening the country?"

"Fascinating," the wealthiest man said admiringly. Approval was clearly written on his features.

Then, something flashed in Federico's eyes, "though you have made one small mistake. I am not weakening the country; I am strengthening it."

"Strengthening?" Griffith asked dubiously.

"Tell me, boy, what do you know of the Kushan empire? And particularly the Kushan Emperor?" Federico asked instead, avoiding the question.

Griffith hummed, before answering.

"He is a man shrouded in mystery. The territory he possesses is vast and his servants numerous and bloodthirsty. He rules with an iron fist, and has a wife with whom he sired one son. There have been rumors of his mother trying to poison him, and he supposedly killed his own father."

Federico's eyebrows rose.

"You are surprisingly well-informed."

What could he say? Men become talkative with a belly full of wine and a mouth around their cock. He kept silent, smiling bitterly.

"Of course, while this much is true, there lies a dark secret underneath. His son is a fretful creature, and it came as no surprise that he plotted to end his father's life. I had to curb this poor attempt and have managed to make him relent. He will withhold further actions until someone from our side joins him in this venture."

Griffith quickly connected the dots. "You want me to help him murder his father?"

Federico took one more sip of wine. No answer was needed.

Griffith frowned. "Forgive me my lord, but I still don't see the link with making our country more powerful."

Federico laid his empty glass on the table. Taking a deep breath, he spoke levelly.

"The reason is three-fold. I am culling the weak elements, the ones who would hamper the growth of the kingdom. The second is making allies. This is where the Kushan empire comes in. The prince is inclined to support us given we succeed in our common endeavor. The third..."

He clenched his fist.

"I - no - the kingdom needs a defender. A protector of unrivalled strength, who will crush any enemy who dares to stand in its way."

"Guts," Griffith said reverently.

Federico nodded. "Yes, though he is still incomplete as he is. He still cannot compare to the likes of Nosferatu Zodd. A transcendental being, free from the shackles of humanity. That is who I am aiming to mould."

The realization hit Griffith like a ton of bricks. "A test. All of this farce, the expedition, the battles. It was all a test to assess whether Guts was a valid candidate or not."

His frame shook as he recalled the events which happened afterwards. "Even then, me kissing him, all of this was..."

"Schemed, orchestrated; my design."

Griffith gnashed his teeth, his eyes a mere slant while his white-knuckled fists shook. His flushed cheeks, his dilated pupils, and euphoria. He had thought they were a mere side-effect of winning, but he had been doubtful. Brash actions did not resemble him, especially if his hand was not forced.

Federico glared at him harshly.

"I was not blind to how infatuated you were with that man. Yes, I admit I had one of your Hawks tamper with your post-victory drink, but it was for good reasons."

All the tension left Griffith's body as his fury condensed. He smiled the sweetest, most saccharine smile he had ever graced anyone with.

Federico's eyes widened as goosebumps erupted across his body. A shiver of dread caressed his spine. He nearly recoiled before the icy eyes of the younger man.

"You are playing a hazardous game." His honeyed voice was a dark caress, a promise of endless woes.

Federico's breath was stolen, and he had to remind himself to breathe to prevent choking. Perhaps he had miscalculated.

This man was not a mere playtoy.

He was a predator.

And as with any predator, the only way to escape his jaw was to offer a more attractive prey.

Gathering his wits, Federico spoke, "Do you not want to know the reasons?"

But Griffith only bowed politely. From his position, he said. "Your lordship, I apologize, but I am afraid that if I stay one moment longer, I will do something I might regret. Forgive me for taking my leave."

As Griffith left the premises, Federico released a shaky breath. His legs would have given out had he not been seated.

He vowed it would be the last unsupervised meeting he attended, privacy be damned.

That night, and all nights henceforth, he tripled the number of men guarding his bedchambers.

 

* * *

 

( **With Guts** )

"You are beset by doubt."

Guts' eyebrows rose sharply. "Beset? Wuzzat?"

Skull Knight did not answer, his hands gripping the reins firmly.

Guts sighed. Fuck, he was tired. It had been four long days since they had left behind the grassy plains and he was beginning to get sick of flying and landing, then taking off again, with only short breaks to eat and rest in-between.

"What plagues your mind?" making an effort, Skull Knight corrected himself, "Why are you... uncomfortable?"

Guts would have laughed had that not meant biting off his tongue, for the horse was currently trotting. Skull Knight did not have to pull on the reins for the stallion to stop and he swiftly dismounted, expecting Guts to reciprocate. They had arrived near a dense forest of oddly-shaped trees. Somehow, this place felt weird.

"You mean 'sides me going all o'er the world with a skull knight who I don't even know the name?"

"My name is inconsequential. I am a remnant of dead eons, adrift in the sea of time, awash in causality."

"...the fuck is that s'posed to mean?"

Once again, silence was all that met his query. Guts rubbed his forehead. That was migraine-inducing.

"Linger no more, for the trees have eyes. Come, let us make haste."

His pace quickened as they breached the fringe of the woods. After two hours of a quick walk Guts likened to a jog, they arrived at a clearing with a wooden house. In front of the habitation, a little girl with a pointed hat was playing with a small mud monster. Upon sighting them, she ran inside, closing the door behind her.

A couple of awkward minutes later, an old woman came out. She was the grandmotherly kind with a cloth covering her white hair. A gentle smile greeted them.

"As foreseen, you have come. Please, do enter. I hope you don't mind tea."

She left the door ajar and went to prepare a pot of tea. Skull Knight followed her inside, his tall and thick body brushing the frame. Guts followed suit, not really knowing what to expect.

It was beyond bizarre to see the haughty knight sitting in a much too small chair, with a cup of steaming tea set on a small table in front of him. His shield was laid at his feet.

The woman smiled as she set another cup of the beverage in front of another armchair, inviting Guts to sit. Quite uncomfortable, though not disquieted, he sat down but did not touch the drink.

She sat on a chair in a way that they formed a triangle formation.

"The fabric of causality is unraveling at the seams," the woman said without preamble.

Guts had to refrain from sighing. Great. Another weirdo.

"Indeed. I cannot fathom the cause, though I gather it is not **_his_ ** design."

Who was **_he_**?

The woman looked pensive. "Yes, **_he_** would have prevented such a thing from happening. Do you think it could be the seed?"

Guts could not take such cryptic bullshit anymore. "Wait, wait. Who is he? And what's the seed?"

The woman looked surprised at his outburst.

"Did you not inform him?" she glanced at Skull Knight reproachfully.

As usual, he did not say anything. The old woman sighed.

"We were referring to a member of the God's Hand. Void is his name," she answered.

"Who are the God's Hand?" Guts asked.

"Four beings of immeasurable power. They stream along the flow of causality while waiting for the opportune time. This era is one of those." Skull Knight answered instead.

"What is causality?" Guts asked, eyebrows raised.

"The events leading to one another, the cause and the consequence. Some might say it is fate. As such, it is fated that every 216 years one new shall appear, until they are complete." For once, what he said was surprisingly helpful.

"What about the seed?" Guts asked.

"The idea of evil. The origin of all the monsters. As long as human cruelty exists, the seed grows stronger, and as it grows stronger, it spawns more abominations. We believe it is the reason for the God Hand's existence, and that it is crystallized in physical shape by the Behelith."

"Wait, is the seed an object or a weird concept?" Guts asked, surprised. Behelith, this word rang a bell in his mind, but he could not place it. This week was becoming weirder and weirder.

The woman laughed airily. "Even I, with all the depth of my knowledge, do not know, young one. Even now, we are merely speculating, it might just as well not exist. Though the absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence."

Guts hit his head against the backrest. Fuck, this was getting much too complicated.

She took one sip of her tea - it must have cooled enough - then sighed blissfully. "The herbs in this forest are quite suited to tea brewing."

Guts glared at his own cup with suspicion, as if it would jump him.

She smiled indulgently. "Though I suppose you are not here for trifle chatter."

Skull Knight's eyes glowed.

"The spellblade..." he trailed off as if it were supposed to mean something.

The woman seemed to understand what he meant, for she clapped her hands once, and incredibly, a sword flew in the air, hovering a solid foot above the wooden floorings. It was rusted and colored red as if it had been bathed in blood.

"The spellblade, **Widow's Bane**. It belonged to a once great warrior," she said, her gaze lingering on Skull Knight.

"It is a vestige of the past, though it may have its uses yet." The knight contemplated.

"What am I s'posed to do with it?" Guts asked, a frown overtaking his features.

"Just cut the tip of your finger on the blade," the woman answered.

"Fuck no! I don't wanna catch a disease," Guts rebutted.

"Fret not. If you are deemed worthy, you shall be spared from torment." And was it his imagination or did he look amused by his outburst? It almost seemed like a taunt.

Before he could decline further, the blade swung by itself, and a thin cut appeared on Guts' arm. He cursed.

The blade glowed brightly, before enlarging and becoming a massive sword which would have no problem cutting through a millennial oak tree. Guts was left speechless. What the hell was it with all the magic? First a walking skeleton, then a flying horse, a flying sword and now a morphing blade?

"Rather than **Widow's Bane** , is it not **Dragon's Bane**?" the woman quipped, amusement obvious in her greyish-blue eyes.

Guts must have been going crazy because he could have sworn he had heard the sword purr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I'm so sorry for the delay! I was quite busy with work and the summer preparations that I left the fic in a corner of my brain for later perusal. Thank you for reminding me that I needed to post a chapter!  
> By the way, I do read the comments and appreciate the kudos (you are all awesome.) It also drives me forward!
> 
> So what is planned right now:  
> -Coronation and court games  
> -Kushan expedition (this might get uncomfortable for those less inclined to read smut-ish things)  
> -The eclipse (oh boy, I am really pumped for this part. It will not unfold as you might expect, in more ways than one)  
> -The path of damnation  
> -The kingdom that was promised  
> -Then other stuff I can't reveal without spoiling too much
> 
> Pretty much 80% and the end is planned, I just need to wrap them up neatly and fill in the blanks.
> 
> Thank you all for reading!
> 
> Kindest regards,  
> Moratorium19


	5. A midwinter ngiht's dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you're in a room with noisy neighbors, and you can't focus on work, you tend to do other activities.
> 
> When the man you're obsessing over comes to your room by mistake during said activities, things get complicated.
> 
> Warnings: light description of masturbation, I guess. I tried to keep it toned down. Also some fluff. And not much plot advancing.

Griffith wrote flowery words on a piece of paper, his quill flowing gracefully, elegant cursive following his every stroke.

_Your Majesty,_

_It is with a heavy heart that I confess my grief at your loss. Your father was a chivalrous man whom many extolled the virtues of, and his senseless death at the enemy's hands did not only make you an orphan but bereaved the whole kingdom, orphaning us all._

_Words cannot express the depth of our sorrow, but alas, life will go on as it always has._

_You must be strong, for when_

Griffith stopped here, biting his lip. Carefully, he resumed.

_when the enemy comes, bloodthirsty and unjustly boastful of the vilest deeds, you shall be the first and last obstacle standing in their way._

_You need not be alone._

Muffled voices came from the other room, the thin walls doing little to block them.

"Come on, you naughty girl, play with me."

Cue giggle and smothered moans.

Oh, Goodness gracious, not _again_. It was the _third_ time in _two_ days. Were he any less refined, Griffith would have slammed his head against the desk.

Focusing on the penmanship and the words instead of the surrounding noise, he gathered his wits, rolling his eyes.

_For you shall always find an ally in us, and we want to fuck yo---_

"Shite!" Griffith growled, scrapping the paper.

Glaring murderously at the wooden wall separating the two rooms, he knocked thrice against it to signal that, yes, someone was here, and no, not 'nobody will hear us so let me slap that butt.'

Everything went silent, and Griffith sighed in relief. He prepared another paper, then froze in his tracks when another giggling sound came from the other side.

Gritting his teeth and knowing that he would get no work done tonight, he flopped back on his bed, resting the back of his hand against his forehead.

Thoughts about the future swirled in his head in a maelstrom of hypothesis, probabilities and what ifs. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, clearing his head of all these complicated ponderings. Plans were fickle mistresses, and one should not commit to one too much, least one be sorely disappointed.

He wondered if the others felt like he did, sometimes. Perhaps they merely followed him, expecting him to make the best decision in their interest. Mercenaries were like that after all.

On dark days where his more bitter feelings came into the open, he resented them. They wanted him to sacrifice everything, his own self for them.

On other, more auspicious days, he only shouldered the burden like he always had, content in being the older brother -slash father- figure, reliable and confident.

But even the sturdiest mountains could be struck with landslides.

He knew of only one mountain which was unshakable. The embodiment of strength and confidence, a force of nature against all the odds.

Guts. _Guts_. **_Guts_**.

Unbowed, headstrong, bold, cocky... there were many adjectives Griffith could label him with.

At first, it was sincere admiration. Seeing Guts defy odds beyond common understanding and come out on top galvanized Griffith's more adventurous side.

Maybe there was some attraction, too. But Griffith was biased since the contact with men had oftentimes meant carnal affairs, such that he knew not if his attraction was genuine, or merely his body reacting on its own, twisting affection into arousal in some convoluted way.

But yearn he did, and Griffith could not stop the self-loathing he felt, gut-wrenchingly visceral and bittersweet.

His nails dug crescent on his arms through the fabric.

The only thing Guts had desired was companionship, and Griffith had denied him even this basic human decency.

Despicable.

Griffith exhaled a shallow breath.

His hand crept lower.

It was perhaps the stifling heat inside, or mayhap even the constant grunting and creaking bed in the other room, or even the irritating moans. Were he looking for excuses, he might have considered and put the blame on one of those. He was not.

He was a healthy young man, and he had his needs. It was as simple as that.

Inhale. Exhale. Griffith pulled on his tunic, biting the rough fabric to make the access easier. It might have been easier to just strip, but for some reason he could not fathom, he did not. The white-haired man guessed it would be easier to contain his voice, biting on something. He lowered his trousers, too. Just a little, not pulling them all the way off, or even bunching them to his ankles. He just kept them at mid-calf.

His cock twitched in interest. He closed a hand around it, giving it a tentative stroke.

Unbidden, images assaulted his mind, and all the what ifs, probabilities, and hypotheses came rushing back full force, leaving him reeling. Differently, though, for they were all centered on _him_.

He clenched his teeth on the hemp fabric while he glared at the wooden, moist ceiling.

Why could he not have healthy relationships with people? It was always manipulating, cajoling, punishing, rewarding. Exploiting. And lastly coveting.

His hand tightened, and he set a brutal pace while his other hand, the one unoccupied dug into his ribs. Wounding. He was not doing it to pleasure himself but as a punishment.

Griffith released the tunic, and a long, shameful moan escaped him as he felt himself edging closer. His head was thrown back, his back arching. With half-mast eyelids, his blurry and hazy eyes gazed heavenward unseeingly.

"Fuck, I'm exhausted."

Griffith froze. His hands stopped moving.

Slowly, he turned his head, and his pale skin became ghostly when he saw the man standing at the entrance.

The man looked as shocked as Griffith felt.

 

* * *

 

Guts cracked his neck as he waited for the innkeeper to address his request for a room for two days. So yeah, he was back at Wyndham, and fuck had he missed a city full of life and more importantly a real bed and non-creepy company. The heavily-built woman finally came back from whatever errand she had been running and handed him some keys.

Her accent was thick, and Guts only understood that he was supposed to go to the second floor and turn around the corner.

Thanking her, he made his way up the flight of stairs, yawning widely as the fatigue of the trip took its toll on him. Fuck, how he longed for a hot shower, he would melt into a puddle and live his aqueous life on the bathroom floor.

He opened the door on the left and sighed in relief when it opened.

"Fuck, I'm exhausted," he said, entering the room.

It was a simple room with a desk and a single bed. A single wooden door leading to a smaller room was on the opposite side, maybe leading to the bathroom. At least Guts hoped so.

More importantly, though, a man was lying on the bed.

A very familiar man in a very revealing position.

How did he even end up in such weird, awkward situations? He brought his hand up to rub the back of his neck and chuckled nervously, averting his eyes.

"Well, I'll just leave ya to it."

Guts turned back, trying to erase from his memory the picture of debauchery that had been imprinted. He didn't manage to, but it was the thought that counted, right?

"Guts, wait!"

There was a rustling of fabric, then a dull noise and a muffled groan.

Guts spun around and couldn't help bursting out laughing at the sight that greeted him.

Griffith was sprawled on the floor, his pants around his knees (he had not even bothered with raising them in his haste to reach him, Guts guessed) bare butt up in the air. He was rubbing his jaw.

Guts frowned when he saw the thin trickle of blood down his lip.

"You okay?" Guts asked, lending him a hand.

Griffith shook his head and took the outstretched hand, momentarily marveling at the ease with which Guts pulled him to his feet.

Blushing with embarrassment and averting his eyes, Griffith pulled his trousers up and tightened his belt.

He darted out his tongue and winced when he felt his split lip.

Guts sighed. "Take care of yourself, will ya?" Even as he said that a smile pulled at his lips.

Griffith reciprocated the gesture. It was only a small scratch, he had more important things to worry about. Unsurprisingly, he still felt guilty about the terms they had parted on last time.

"Guts-"

"Look-"

They both said simultaneously, then they stopped talking. Guts cleared his throat. "Look, about last time, let's call it quits."

Griffith nodded absentmindedly. Warmth curled in the pit of his stomach, and it was as if things were right again. As sweet as homecoming after a long journey.

"Wanna walk with me?" Guts asked unexpectedly.

Griffith cocked his head owlishly. He could see the exhaustion bearing down on Guts like a physical weight, and he had stifled a yawn twice.

The white-haired man nodded though, following his lead as they got out of the room, locking the door behind. And was it not a strange thought for Griffith, following someone? He was used to being the leader, though he supposed that was a nice change of pace.

The stairs creaked as they went, and they hastened to make their way across the dining room / pub where many patrons watched them with wary glances.

The outside air was cold, though it was much more comfortable here than inside.

As they walked, a few men and women were busy with the last preparations for the coronation of Prince Adonis. How eerie to think that they had been the ones to pry the metaphorical crown from Julius cold hands and put it atop a shy young boy's head. Griffith shared a look with Guts, but the man only shrugged.

With all the men he had killed and the many others he would slay in the future, he could not afford to feel guilty for orphaning one more boy.

As they reached a plaza where various shops ranging from flower to a butcher were set in a semi-circle around a Holy See church, Guts decided to sit on top of the steps leading to the high marble building.

Griffith smiled and went to sit beside him. He put his hands behind him, resting his weight on them, his fingers splayed against cold granite while he gazed at the twinkling stars above. It was like they had some tale to tell, some way to light the path to a grander future. He spent some time contemplating them in companionable silence.

When he finally looked down, he realized Guts had been staring at him for a long time - mayhap all this time - and he directed him an inquisitive glance. Guts averted his eyes, mumbling something about the moon and the way it reflected off him and fuck he was not a fucking poet stop grinning at me.

Griffith chuckled warmly, peaceful contentment making his chest light. He had needed that, he only had not realized how much until now.

"Hey, Griffith. How d'ya see your future?"

Griffith pondered the question for a moment, then he answered carefully. "I see myself having accomplished many grand deeds, and surrounded by the people I guide. Elevated to the rank of knights, protectors of the realm. That's the least I could do for the people who have sweated, bled and cried for and with me. And..."

He hesitated. Seeing how enraptured Guts was though, he swallowed uneasily and resumed in a shaky voice. "And I see us... together. Perhaps not in a romantic way, but at least together. Companions and brothers-in-arms, forever."

" _You're mine. Now and forever_." Guts whispered the words that had haunted Griffith's nightmares.

Griffith looked down. So absorbed in his thoughts he was, he nearly missed Guts' mumbled 'Why not.' He looked up sharply, but the raven only said. "Why are ya so crazy about me? We're nearly strangers."

Refocusing, Griffith answered with an airy laugh, though his head throbbed with the implications. "I wonder why. Maybe it's the fact that you listened to me and actually understood my plight. Maybe it's because you have a dark past and I felt a kinship. Maybe it's because you're reassuring and strong, and I feel like you won't break if I lay a little of the weight crushing my shoulders on yours, as selfish as it is."

Guts laughed and was that not a pleasant sound? "Wait wait, that's too many reasons. If you had to choose one?"

Griffith smiled, and the light of the moon lit his delicate features and sharp planes in a way Guts found mesmerizing. His hair was a bright halo framing his beautiful face.

He found reassurance in his eyes, confidence, and love. Not the romantic kind, but the selfless one, where one would do anything for another being. Like a parental love, one he had dearly missed all his life and damn if that was not sappy.

Griffith's gaze softened even further. "Maybe because you are _here_. And is that not enough?"

Guts' heart thumped, and he felt lightheaded. That was dangerous. He had to get going; otherwise, he would do something he would regret come morn.

"Fuck, let's get going, my ass' getting frozen sitting here," he evaded Griffith's question and quickly stood, nearly stumbling in his haste. But before he could go, Griffith laid his hand on his shoulder.

"Guts. Thank you. For everything."

The man leaned in, and Guts could have predicted what happened next, though it still came as a surprise. Griffith kissed him chastely on the lips, just the barest press of flesh on his. It was the complete opposite of the other one.

And Guts found his resolve crumbling.

The Holy See atop the church seemed to be glaring at them for committing this impious deed. Or perhaps it was only gazing stonily, as if the affairs of mortals did not concern it.

They bade each other good night and Guts walked in a daze.

Why had that kiss not bothered him at all?

More importantly, why had he wanted to reciprocate it, and maybe even go a tiny bit further?

What the fuck was even happening with his life?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh well, I had planned for much more happening in this chapter, yet it came as a character development one. I guess it's needed somehow. But anyway, next section will contain the coronation, the generals' selection games, the beginning of the court games, etc...  
> Should be a pretty long one, if things go according to plan so it might take a tiiiiny bit longer to write. My deepest apologies.  
> I also wish to thank everyone reviewing, kudoing, bookmarking the story; kikorime, Lii9, Fe, Maria_potter, TheCheshireCat01, giuly666, Paradoxides, Jeane25, Momokai, Ihavesomething, Erisandmira, giorococo, MadameNoir, apricotpeach,, and Clarissa_23 as well as dear anonymous guests, you people are marvelous human beings.
> 
> Also a thank you to the community for the outstanding stories written, it's such a bliss to read everyone's work! 
> 
> Much love!  
> Moratorium


	6. Crowning and scheming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A crown for a king."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bird! It's a plane! No, it's a new update!

"My liege, it is time."

With shaky legs, Adonis crossed the few meters separating him from the De Vandimion patriarch, his heels clinking against the polished marble flooring. The man's sharp gaze dissected him for a few seconds, making the boy uncannily nervous. Then, something like approval flickered in the elder's orbs, before being mercilessly smothered by his customary implacable indifference.

There were a thousand questions Adonis would have liked to ask, though the only one which was obsessing enough to deprive him of sleep, especially as of late, was the one he asked then:

"The crown... how heavy it is?"

Were he a lesser man, Federico would have sighed, Adonis wagered. His noble upbringing only made him raise a slender brow instead.

"As heavy as the number of subjects under its thrall. Everyone will look up to you, putting their expectations, doubts and faith upon your shoulders. Will you be a fair king? A tyrant like Gaiseric? Or a simpleton? This is the kind of questions which will run through their minds, consciously or not. They will look at you through a prejudice-tinted prism. Though as much as it is a burden, it is also an unbridled power. They will seek your guidance; you shall borrow their strength.

"Whether you shall be compassionate or diabolical is entirely up to you and I would be ill-placed to advise you in this regard. However, do keep this in mind. The worth of a man is not defined by how many riches he has accumulated, or how many military exploits he has accomplished. It is how many people cry at his funerals which defines him."

These words imprinted deeply in the boy's mind, a red iron brand searing away his uncertainties, if only for now. With a nod, he then thanked the Lord and they resumed their trek toward the Holy See Cathedral where the new king would be anointed. It was a pretty formal procedure, but in this time of crisis, it was a very welcome proceeding, since it brought a semblance of stability and normalcy.

The procession left the Castle's walls and everywhere they passed, a wide berth was made, the masses recoiling from the marching knights. They had foregone using palanquins as means of transportation, opting to ride majestic stallions with the thought that having the people see their new king would assuage their worries.

"Back straight. They are looking at you, smile."

The whispered words of the astride Lord De Vandimion who rode alongside him reached him and he straightened his spine, his hunched shoulders aligned and his lips pulled into a watery smile as he waved his hand at the people.

"Hey you brat, away!"

His attention was brought to a commotion on the side. Curious, he rode in this direction and dismounted (which was an obvious breach of protocol) when he saw a kid being harassed by a knight.

"What is this ruckus about?" asked Adonis, some anger leaking into his tone.

The royal guard saluted then spoke, clearly aggravated, "This damned brat says he wishes to speak with your Highness. I told him scram but he staunchly refuses."

Adonis' eyebrows rose sharply, "Then why did you not let him through?"

Flabbergasted, the knight watched as Adonis bent slightly forward to be level with the boy's aquamarine eyes and a genuine smile stretched his lips.

"What did you want to tell me?"

Gulping, the boy floundered for a few seconds, then he managed to find his voice. "M-My friend's parents say they don't know if you will be a good king. Y-You're young..."

Immediately, the knight grabbed the boy by the collar and hoisted him in the air, watching in delight as he choked.

"What are you doing?! Release him at once!" Adonis barked.

The knight threw him a sidelong glance, as if to say that he knew the situation better than Adonis himself did. "Your lordship, slandering royalty is punished with flogging until death ensues. Since he is a child, we will stop at flogging him. Commoner filth! That 'friend's' parents, however..."

The boy was pale as a sheet, his freckles standing out sharply as fright left him bloodless.

"Did you not hear me or are you soft in the head? Unhand him. Now," Adonis grounded out.

Shrugging, the guard opened his armored palm and the boy fell on his butt, thankfully not breaking anything but still hurting him. Adonis glared at the guard. Very slowly, Adonis worded out.

"I was not aware we punish citizens for speaking their mind. I personally think the deceased King, my dear uncle, was a fool and not suited to rule. Will I be flogged too then?"

The man was silent, though he was obviously irked that the commoners had started whispering amongst themselves. Paying him no mind, Adonis helped the boy to his feet.

"What is your name?" Adonis asked kindly.

"K-Kite Genteel," the boy stuttered, a heavy blush adorning his features at such close scrutiny by everyone, especially his new King.

"Then, Kite. To answer your question: yes I am young. A few years older than you but still. I'm not sure I will be a good king. I will do my utmost best, obviously. Will that be enough? Only time will tell. But I can promise you one thing..."

A fire was lit inside him, and all those harsh lessons that he had received these previous weeks, and all of his life were he to reflect on it, shone through in that instant. Here stood not a boy, not a scion of royal blood. But a regal presence, befit of being called the king. His voice got louder as he maintained eye contact with the women, men and children who were 'unfortunate' enough not to be born with royal blood.

"Under my rule, no one. And I do mean no one shall be treated with such obvious lack of respect, be they of royal blood or not. Those found guilty of such actions - especially _my knights_ \- will be dished out punishment equal to slandering a king. I believe that is flogging until death ensues, right?"

As he said that, his smoldering gaze bore into the knight's trembling one.

"M-My liege. You cannot be serious..." the man croaked out, completely out of his depth.

With as much disdain as he could muster, Adonis glared at him. "Guards! Send this scum to the gaol. I would see him behind walls to cool his head."

Federico coughed once to grab his attention, which he got.

"Your Grace. Having a man sentenced to jail the day of your anointment is in bad taste. Maybe having a lighter punishment would be better advised..." The De Vandimion Lord's voice, naught but a murmur came.

Heaving a deep sigh, Adonis nodded, finding sense in Federico's words. He amended his judgment.

"Very well. Since today is an auspicious day, he will instead be demoted from his functions and disgraced. Since he so despises commoners, let him live as one."

The knight was feeling so relieved he nearly collapsed. Something unexpected happened then. It was a whisper at first, but soon enough people were screaming at the top of their lungs.

"King Adonis!"

"Adonis the Good!"

"Adonis the Magnanimous!"

 

* * *

 

 

"Adonis the Magnanimous? This upstart brat..."

Former Lord Rosco, now only Charles Rosco ranted. The humiliation of being stripped bare of his armor and sword and relegated to the likes of the flea-infested masses was a disgusting and unbearable slight. Of course, it was better than hanging or rotting in a cell, but it was an extremely hard pill to swallow.

Now, he had been allotted two hours to pack his belongings and leave his estate. It was no wonder he was irate, especially since he believed he had been doing his job splendidly, and it was only the smooth-talking Minister Foss who cooled his ire.

"This certainly has been unprecedented, though maybe not unexpected. Lord DV is assuredly shrewd, and K seems to have fallen in his clutches. It is a shame for your Lordship, indeed, though there is little recourse-"

Rosco smiled darkly. "No recourse, you say? Minister Foss, do tell me how many Lords and Ladies are vying for the seat of power."

Foss eyes widened. His eyes darted left and right but thankfully the blinds were closed and two guards stood as silent sentinels in front of the ancestral abode.

"T-This is not the sort of conversation we should be having here..." the Minister of Court Intrigues spoke curtly.

He turned to leave but he was stopped by a firm hand grabbing his shoulder, pulling so tightly that he nearly stumbled as he was forced to face the man.

"Minister Foss. I asked you a question. What is our support?"

Foss batted away the hand restraining him with a scowl and spoke seriously.

"About two dozen. But as I already said, this is not the ideal course of action. There is currently a war being waged. Destabilizing the crown would be the worst decision. If the enemy invades, we - and our families - will all be put to the blade. I would rather have a boy-king than seeing my daughter raped and butchered."

"Spoken like a true Minister of the Realm," a youthful voice which could only be described as smooth and saccharine caressed their ears.

The men started as they saw a man in the living room, his back resting lightly against the wall, arms crossed. Foss couldn't help the feeling of dread grabbing his insides with an icy grip as the man observed them with hawk-like eyes. Beautiful beyond belief and just as dangerous. This was what his guts were telling him.

Beside him stood a tall and broad man with a bored look. Spiky dark hair, a small scar upon his nose. The typical brooding type. The muscle mass he had, however, was cause for worry.

"You fuckers, do you not know whose property you are trespassing in?" Rosco growled out, pulling out a blade he kept hidden on his person at all times.

"Is it not the mansion of Lord - ah, forgive me - former Lord Charles Rosco? Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you. You might get hurt," the silver-haired man said slyly.

A vein throbbed on the former Lord's forehead. "Brat... Trespassing is a crime and I am well within my rights to enact justice."

An amused smile stretched Griffith's lips.

"A crime weighing heavier than sedition?" It was said innocuously enough.

A pin dropping would have been as loud as cannon fire. Minister Foss broke the religious silence.

"How much... did you hear?" he asked uncertainly, a tentative voice reaching into the unknown.

"Adonis the Magnanimous? This upstart brat..." Griffith mimicked the Rosco scion's voice, repeating what he had said word for word with an amused glint in his eyes.

Charles Rosco did his best to reign in his anger. He bit out acidly. "And who, pray tell, would believe the words of commoners? I wager His Majesty doesn't even know you."

Slowly Griffith took out a document from the satchel hanging at his hip. While he did so, he spoke clearly. "His Majesty, not directly, not yet at least. Lord De Vandimion? That is another story altogether."

He handed the paper to Minister Foss, who took it with a trembling hand. As he read the contents of the letter, his already pale skin blanched further and he swayed on his feet, having to rest on an armchair to steady himself.

"What? What is it?" Rosco barked, ill at ease with this turn of events.

"It... It proclaims that the Leader of the Band of the Hawks, Griffith, is made Royal Inspector of the Public Decency by decree of His Majesty, King Adonis. This bears Federico III's crest as well as... the Royal Seal."

Disbelieving, Charles Rosco took the offending piece of parchment and roared as he read the same information Foss had announced.

The source of his anger with the title was the following. In a bid to mend the gap between nobility and commoners, the new king and his advisors had decided to create new positions which would be filled with people hailing from non-noble lineage. These select few would have prerogatives belonging to the nobility. In order to appease the stauncher defenders of traditional values however, they retained their status of commoner

"You.. piece of shit.. plebeian. Do you really think I'll put up with such horse malarkey? Know your place!" Completely incensed, he dropped the weapon he was holding and instead backhanded the white-haired man.

It would have made Griffith's head snap to the side, and perhaps his diamond ring would have torn Griffith's cheek open.

The fist was stopped two mere inches from Griffith's face. The tall man standing beside him like a silent wraith caught the hand in an unyielding grip. Try as he might, Rosco could not free his caged limb. 

"Assaulting the custodian of His Majesty's authority during an official investigation? This is going to cost you dearly."

It was in his eyes, Foss realized with a sudden clarity. This expression. It was one of those you could find on prowling predators. The inherent savagery of a beast ready to tear apart everything and everyone who stood in its way, limb from limb if it had to. He had seen this expression on many an orphan who had crawled out of the suburbs' rotten guts. But theirs had been as mild as newborn kittens' in comparison.

Griffith’s eyes were crescents of pure depravity and unholy hunger.

Griffith hummed, "You seem to like using your fists to talk. Guts. Destroy them."

"With pleasure," the man, Guts apparently, grunted with a vicious smile making him bare his teeth.

If someone had told him a human had the power to crumple someone's bones like wet paper, Minister Foss would have scoffed. Charles Rosco howling and screaming bloody murder did wonders to convince him of its feasibility. Thankfully, the screams stopped when Guts bashed the man's skull against the floor.

By now, Minister Foss was sweating profusely. They wouldn't dare to assault him, would they? He was still a highly-ranked and respected figure.

"Minister Foss? Are you feeling unwell?" Griffith asked with irony-tinted faux worry.

"I must admit I am feeling rather under the weather," Minister Foss said tiredly, laying his head against the headrest.

Griffith chuckled mirthfully. "Ah, that is understandable given the circumstances."

Taking the time to observe his delicate features, Foss took deep breaths. Then his eyes swept toward the other man, the one with prodigious strength. The muscle and the brain, huh? Though he had the feeling Griffith was more than a pretty face and a quick-witted fellow.

"What do you want from me?" he asked at last, breaking the heavy silence in the room.

Griffith tapped his index against his chin, seemingly deep in thought. "A favor? No, that would be too much to ask for. I guess I just want your support. Having a Minister of the court supporting the Band of the Hawks would be a great boon for our measly crew."

Foss guessed these were... reasonable terms. Ones he could agree with, at least.

The duo went to leave and Griffith said some parting words, just as Foss' eyes closed with exhaustion, the ordeal having left him drained of energy.

"Ah, one more thing. You might want to check your numbers. I doubt that many among those two dozen supporters have steadfast allegiances. Until next time. You can expect the royal guards to barge in within a few minutes."

Ah, Foss thought despondently, what a mess.

(To be continued)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is still alive T__T Sorry for the delay, I got sidetracked with many side projects so I did not have much time to write this. Actually I had finished writing this chapter two months ago but I wanted it to reach 5000 words before publishing. If I do, it's gonna take two more months, though, so I decided to post what I have right now.
> 
> Thank you for kudoing, bookmarking and reviewing (and of course reading :) ).
> 
> Nothing much happens right now but some building. Can't always have action or sexy times I guess haha. 
> 
> Kindest regards,  
> Moratorium19

**Author's Note:**

> Some events do change, some don't. This story won't stick too close to canon. As you can see in the last line, anyhow. :)  
> Kindest regards,  
> Moratorium


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